Woman Under Glass
by clinkeroo
Summary: Thrust into the sweaty, sexual underbelly of mainland China, James Bond must play a brutal game of wits with a Burmese drug overlord. Once again, I write about Ian Fleming's Bond, not the superman of the latter films.


**_Woman Under Glass_**

**Hua** watched the Western man walk into the club through the smoke and dim lighting. His gait was smooth and athletic as he cut through the crowd of shorter Guan Dong men as if he were skating, rather than walking. She already knew he was coming to her cubicle, just as he had done for the last three days.

The thought of this man doing something as feminine as skating brought a giggle to her lips; a giggle she quickly repressed as she realised her current customer had ceased in both his droning gale of obscenities and his self-gratifying gesticulations.

"Is there something funny in what I have said?" the squat and wrinkled fifty-something man barked at her in Cantonese from behind the glass.

Her eyes quickly darted to Chow, her keeper, as well as the keeper of the nine other girls in her hall, and, as she feared, the man's eyes were dead set upon her. She was surely just seconds away from securing herself a beating if she did not recover quickly.

"No, Sir," she replied to the toad of a man before her. "A young schoolgirl like myself just isn't used to hearing such language from a distinguished older gentleman." This seemed to ease him some, as his hands went back about their business, and his breath became more heated, leaving clouds against her glass as he continued.

"But do you enjoy such words?" he wanted to know.

"Oh, yesss," Hua assured him in a coo, allowing him to glance a little more of her inner thigh. This last revelation must have been enough to finish the man, and as he went about putting himself back in order, Hua stole one more glance. The Westerner was speaking to Chow now, and their hands were meeting in what could only be an exchange of _renminbi_. If the prior days were any guide, it would be nearly a thousand _yuan _as the man paid extra for her exclusive services for what would be the remainder of the evening and early morning. Chow, whom she'd known since she'd been sold all those years ago, had always been a giant in her eyes, his muscle-bound frame towering above the clients. And yet, he seemed no taller than the white man.

Her soft brown eyes quickly flashed back to the client, who just like all the others, gave his thanks and awkward farewells, scuttling off back to what she assumed to be a wife and family.

Chow had ushered her new man over to the cubicle, and using a weathered bar towel, gave the dull red leather seat a swipe. Her keeper gave her a warning glance, reminding her that this man was big money, and that her penchant for mental meanderings would not be tolerated. He asked the man if he would like a drink.

The man nodded, and in his awkward, but perfect Cantonese, ordered a _Maotai_. Chow nodded, bowed slightly, and went to fill the order, leaving her with a reminding glare that she should make sure the man bought her some drinks as well as the evening progressed.

She had never really found _gwai__ lou_ to be attractive, but there was something about this man; he had dark hair for a Westerner, and although it was cut neat, a stray lock always seemed to break loose above his right eye. His face was all angles, giving him a mean appearance along with the scar that ran across his cheek. He had beautiful lips though, and they stretched into a smile to greet her.

"_Neilhou _Juliet," he said to her.

"_Neilhou_, Sir," she replied in her native tongue, a language she couldn't even begin to write, and could barely speak beyond the pleasantries expected of her work. "But I told you, my name is Hua, not "Juliet"."

He glanced up at the brass plate that had been slid into the slot on the front of her glass cell. A plate that bore the marks representing the name her owners had given her. Whatever it had been before, it had been lost to her and the passing years. "So I've seen, but to me you are "Juliet". And as I told you before, my name is not "Sir", it is "James.""

"_Hai_ James," she said, but his name came out sounding more like "Yames". This made him laugh, and the sound pleased her.

It was here that Chow brought the man's drink.

Once the keeper had moved away, she looked down at this curious man with his pale skin, and spoke. "So what shall we talk about today as you pretend to be interested in me? Perhaps this woman, Juliet, is she someone you have known? Is it possible I remind you of her? Was she as beautiful as I?"

The man removed a metal case from the vest pocket of his tailored, blue dinner jacket, and purposefully began the chain of cigarettes that would lead them through the evening. They were noxious and strong smelling, but Hua had been trained to ignore such trivialities; it was the man and his money that were important, not his vices. And yet, some of the things she'd seen of men and their wants still made her cringe.

"Not really a woman," he said. This caused her to arch an eyebrow, and the man laughed and shook his head. "I am sorry, my Cantonese is old and little used. Juliet was a woman, but a woman in a play written hundreds of years ago by a famous poet from my country." With this he took a quick drink of his _Maotai_ "Would you care to hear of it?"

She nodded, and earnestly so. Hua hungered for conversation that did not involve grunts, pandering, or the threat of a reciprocal beating. Though they were not allowed to speak to one another, the girls managed to communicate in whispers during the six hours a day they were outside their booths, be it during sleep time as they lay huddled on their straw mats in the back room of the club, their daily meal, or the one hour each day they were allowed on the roof of the club to be in the sunlight. They had even developed their own silent code over the years for when they were working. Since all six sides of the chambers were glass, it was easy to observe the other girls, and for them, every raised eyebrow, every hand motion, every gesture, had meaning. In this way, they could speak of the customers, themselves, or even Chow, with no one being the wiser. When deprived long enough, the need for simple communication can become a hideous hunger.

"It is about a fourteen year-old girl, about your age, who falls in love with a handsome young man whose family are rivals of her own."

She listened to the man's voice; so much deeper and less rhythmical that those she was used to, allowing the words to wash over her. Truth be told, she took more joy from the sounds of the language than she managed from his story of Montagues and Capulets.

"Actually, how old are you?" the man who called himself James had ceased his story for the moment, snatching her away from yet another of her thoughtful distractions. Her eyes flashed again to Chow, but he was busy a few more booths down the row and hadn't noticed her daydreaming.

"I am as old, or as young, as you need me to be," she replied. The smile on his faced curbed a bit at the corners, becoming crueler looking, and he shook his head.

"No, that just won't do. How old are you truly?" The man's eyes followed her own as he visually marked Chow again. She knew he could not hear her exchange with the _gwai_, not with the background music and the ceiling fans running. "I apologize," he told her. "I do not wish to cause you any trouble."

_Is that true?_ she thought. _And if it is, then why do you keep looking at the door next to my __cubicle? _

"Would it satisfy you if I told you I had no idea of my age, and if you believe me to be the same as your Juliet, then your eyes are certainly a better guide than my ignorance," she spoke these words in a quiet tone, but almost instantly regretted them. What would happen if she had offended him? Or even worse, what if she wanted to offend him? She might not be a fancy _gwai_ with a business suit and a flashy cigarette case, she might not be able to read or add beyond where her fingers could take her, but she was observant.

After the first day, it had been easy for her to tell he wasn't interested in her for any more reason than the fact that the business office was behind her cubicle. Hua had never been inside the office, but she could steal glances when the door swung open, and Chow, or one of the other keepers, shuttled back and forth like hermit crabs riding the waves beneath the sand. This was the hole the money they accrued poured into, and was also often the destination of the VIP's who visited the club, entering and exiting the door with their handcuffed, metallic briefcases. Was this what her customer wanted? Was he just a common thief, using her to keep track of the timing and the movement of the money? No, she decided, this man had not traveled so far from the West to rob them. He would stand out in Shenzhen, and there would be no corner, or alley, where he could hide his face from Shun Ka. Whatever it was he desired behind that door was a secret.

"Please," she told the man. "I did not mean to offend, continue with your story." He smiled his cruel looking grin once more.

"It's quite alright, really. After the past few days it is good to know you can be snippy, it makes you more interesting."

Chow was now at the bar, draining the till, sliding the cash into a blue zippered bag. As James continued to unwind the death-filled tale, she watched his eyes to see if he was paying attention to Chow. His back was to her keeper, and his head never moved, but although his eyes faced forward the entire time, they were blank. He is using his peripheral vision, Hua decided, just as she and the other girls with their silent communications. But when Chow reached the office, there was no duplicity involved, James blatantly looked into the room as the door swung open, and his blue-grey eyes flashed up and down, and then side to side, as if taking a photograph of everything they saw. Then those eyes turned back to her.

She said nothing, knowing he could not help but notice she was watching him, and in doing so, was placing whatever his secret was partially in her care. There was a forbidden, guilty pleasure in this knowledge. He grinned at her then, as if reading her thoughts, and gave a slight shake of his head.

"Later," he told her, and in doing so, sealed whatever covenant of trust there was between them. But this was a dangerous path for her, one that the man could not hope to understand. The girls were all under strict orders to report anything unusual they might hear or observe while with their clients. Many of their patrons were police or government officials, and sometimes, little hints or words of warning that might be dropped in moments of passion or leisure, could be very profitable to the men she worked for.

"This story of yours, of Juliet," Hua asked. "How does it end, it seems so terribly sad?"

The smile on Bond's faced dropped slightly.

"They die in the end."

**James Bond** stripped off his thin black necktie in a whip like fashion as he entered his room at the Guan Dong International Hotel at about four in the morning. He could still feel the Benzedrine coursing thorough his system, and he wondered what kind of sleep awaited him on the cool side of his pillow. The alcohol had dulled some of the edge, but he felt assured of at least one more restless night.

So far the Boldman I.D. had held. It had secured him entrance from Hong Kong, and his current accommodations, without the People's Armed Police knocking on his door and dragging him away in the middle of the night. Naturally, the last would have been difficult, given that he had spent his entire evening at the Maan On Club waiting for Shun Ka to arrive.

The new day now threatening to breach the skyline would be Bond's fourth in the PRC, and he was still waiting to have M's damnedable meeting with Ka, the Burmese revolutionary that moved a mountain of opium through Hong Kong into England and America each year.

Bond slipped into the narrow bathroom and splashed cold water into his eyes. He studied his own gaze in the mirror, taking note of the red lines and bagginess that had taken a home there. Knowing sleep was still a ways off, he stripped down and ran the water in the shower until the steam billowed.

A good hotel room could be both a blessing and a handicap, he thought, as the hot water wiped away the smoky, almost oily, atmosphere of the Maan On, along with some of his tension. There were three types of Western hotels in the Orient, he decided. There were the overdone baroque palaces that screamed ostentation from every corner, there were the towering glass and steel giants where even the cocktails seemed to have a metallic tang to them, and then there were the ones such as the Guan Dong International. Small classic rooms without overwhelming amenities, excellent service and dining, and a personal touch to the cleaning and room preparation that Bond always found so lacking in the Orient. Alas, while speaking with the concierge, Kim, in the lobby upon his arrival, he'd been assured that the hotel was scheduled for a massive rebuild in the next few years, and would be joining the school of the cold skyscrapers. Even China couldn't resist the call of its financial future forever.

It was a blessing to be able to retreat to his room, from the pit that was Shenzhen. Although he'd always been quite particular about his accommodations, Bond never truly spent much time in his motel rooms unless his assignment called for it, or if the city had little inviting to offer. Everywhere he'd gone in this city, whenever he emerged from his taxi, he had the feeling of a thousand eyes bearing down upon him. Shenzhen did brisk trade, and the streets were teaming with foreigners, but they were generally Burmese or Thai. As a _gwai__ lou, _a racial slur that basically meant white ghost, he stood out. Never a good situation for a man who was essentially a spy; in the West he could blend like a chameleon, in Guan Dong he was a peacock.

The man at the club he'd been dealing with, Chow, had assured him that Shun Ka would be in within the next few days to check on his investment, and that he'd already alerted "the General" of Mr. Boldman's interest in meeting him.

He emerged from the shower having foregone his usual bracingly cold crescendo; sleep would actually be a welcome partner this morning. As he lay upon the silk sheets, drying naturally in the heat of the evening, his coverlet discarded at the foot of the bed like so much shirked skin, Bond's mind skipped to the girl as he awaited slumber.

She was an odd one, and perhaps he'd been a little too coy with her. True, his assignment was rather straight forward, and he had little to hide in his intentions of meeting Ka, but Hua's dancing eyes led him to believe the girl thought there to be a confidence between them. He wondered, if it all went to hell, if she could actually be counted on. As his weariness consumed him, he realised that if the success of his mission came down to the dedication of a 14 year old phone booth girl, then he was certainly dead anyway.

**The rain** did not beat rhythmically on the top of the taxi cab, but was instead more of a sheer roar. There were times in the Orient, Bond mused, that the hot rain was so thick it seemed as if fish could swim by through the very air.

It was already dark outside by the time Bond had eaten his breakfast of heavily creamed scrambled eggs, fresh lychee fruit, and two more Benzedrine tablets. Streetlights were not as prevalent as they were in the West and his view on his ride to Maan On was basically a surreal blur of water spotted with occasional splotches of light. The driver was a small, quiet man who went about his job mechanically, somehow navigating the narrow streets at rapid speed. The view through the front windscreen with its tattered blades seemed, to Bond, no clearer than his own.

As always, he'd packed lightly for the trip, and a top coat was an extravagance his baggage could little afford. As it was, his dark blue single-breasted dinner jacket was soaked along with the rest of him, and to add to his discomfort, the steaming vinyl interior of the taxi cab smelled enough like a wet dog to make him long for the smoke and stale sex aromas which filled the Maan On Club. Sitting next to him was the small plastic parcel of clothing which he'd brought along with him.

From the moment he stepped into the club, he could tell something was different. The two Manchurian-like giants who served as doormen stood a little bit straighter, and their worn red waist coats seemed a little cleaner. Instead of greeting him with friendly banter, under laced with cutting _gwai__ lou_ stares, they silently went about the task of accepting his "membership fee" and guiding him down one of five hallways, each of which housed glass cages of girls of varying ages, types, and classes of beauty.

_The boss is finally in,_ Bond presumed.

Bond's initial briefing had been accurate, Shun Ka's office had been down the hall where the younger girls were kept, which had led some of the MI6 analysts to conclude that he had more than a fatherly interest in their well being.

Chow was at his post as the door to his section opened and Bond stepped in. The tallish Guan Dong man greeted him with the same dry handshake as the previous four days, a feat that was to be commended in Bond's view considering the heat and humidity inside of the place, and the veiled distaste the man obviously felt at having to make physical contact with a Westerner.

A quick word with the man was enough to reward Bond's curiosity. Yes, Ka was there, and he was very interested in meeting the Englishman who'd been inquiring so much about him. Bond bowed to show his thanks, and then reached out to give his monetary thanks, as well.

As Bond was led down the hallway to the office, he glanced into the booths as he passed. Although almost all of the girls were with customers, their eyes still flashed to meet his. Maybe it his oddity of white skin that drew their attention so, but Bond suspected that his desire to meet Ka had most likely drizzled down to them as well. There was also a great deal of dread living within their eyes which he hadn't seen in the days prior.

James Bond bobbed his head from side to side as they passed the gaudy, pastel coloured paper lamps which dangled from the ceiling, lining the centre of the hallway. Finally they passed the last booth which housed his "Juliet." She had no customer, and was undoubtedly expecting him to take his customary seat. When they passed her, making their way to the office, Bond glanced back at her. Their was shock on her face as their eyes locked, but also an overwhelming fear, but unlike the other girls, and the heavies at the door, Hua's fear did not seem to be for her own safety, but projected outwardly for his.

She opened her mouth as if to voice a warning to him, but Bond cut her off with a shake of his head. He was familiar enough with the hierarchy of these clubs to know that any words from Hua would be paid for in full with punishment later on.

When Chow reached the end of the hall he gave a sharp knock.

There was a grunt of recognition from within, and Chow opened the door which swung silently upon its hinges.

"Come in, Mr. Boldman," a voice boomed in the Queen's English from within.

With Chow holding the door for him, Bond did as he was asked. As he entered the office, the same voice that had greeted him issued a sharp jolt of Cantonese telling Chow to join them and to shut the door behind him.

As trained, Bond's eyes took in the office rapidly. The room wasn't that wide, maybe three metres at most, but was at least 15 metres long. On the opposite side of the room from the door was a counting table that ran at least half the length of the wall. Above the table, along the wall there were fastened clipboards and shelves, the latter filled with office supplies, the same sea of pens and scissors, staplers and fasteners, one could find anywhere in the accounting world. One of the clipboards held pictures of women on what he presumed to belicences; but it was difficult to be certain, for although he could speak Cantonese serviceably, his reading and writing skills were paltry at best. Blinking at him from the upper corner, opposite the door, was a security monitor that continuously flipped over scenes from one corner of the club to the other. There was an oscillating fan in one corner ticking back and forth in a losing battle against the oppressive heat and humidity, but mercifully the room seemed to be free from the stench that hung over the rest of the club.

The only extraordinary thing about the office was the man within it. Shun Ka was 78 years old according to the file M had slid across the desk a week and a half earlier, but he did not show it at all. Any grey had been shaved away with the rest of his hair, and his skin was amazingly smooth for one so aged. He wore a dark business suit, a standard white dress shirt, and a very thin, black silk necktie. Although slightly plumper, Ka appeared to be the standard height for a Burman, maybe five and a half feet, but it was hard for Bond to be certain for the man was sitting on an old, worn chaise lounge. What made Shun Ka stand out was sheer charisma. He was leaning forward as they walked in, and immediately bounced to his feet offering Bond an outstretched hand as well as a gracious smile that showed off a full mouth of small, perfect teeth.

"Mr. Boldman, I presume," he said as he pumped Bond's arm up and down. "Mr. James Boldman of Transworld Consortium. Or should I call you Mr. Hazard? Or perhaps, even Mr. Bond."

So, that was it, Bond thought, his cover was blown. It didn't change the scope or objective of his mission, it only stripped away some of the vagaries and perhaps would create more open, trusting, dialog with Ka. However, it did create one major problem.

Bond held his arms out to his side and awaited the inevitable search, but Ka just shook his head and gained his seat once more, indicating Bond should do the same with one of the several office chairs tucked beneath the desk.

"Mr. Bond, put your arms down. I am not a criminal, I am a businessman, and sometimes a revolutionary, but gunplay does not have a place in my world; it is simply bad business." This was followed once again with the brilliant smile. "Besides, what would your country benefit from killing me? They know, as well as I, there are a thousand others, a million others, that would step into my place if I were gone. It would solve nothing."

Bond took the pro-offered seat; it was hard to dislike this energetic little man, but he kept in mind that the friendly fellow before him was in charge of supplying more than a million addicts in the West. He, as the head, might abhor violence, but there was still plenty of blood on the hands of his business.

"Besides," Ka continued. "If the initial contact I received from your people is correct, you are here to talk business."

Bond nodded.

"Your English is excellent."

"Yes, your people have done much harm in this part of the world, Mr. James Bond of Her Majesty's Secret Service, but they have provided the tools for some of us to better ourselves. The great Yin and Yang of cultural rape, as it were."

Bond had cringed at the use of his full name; he glanced back at Chow who held a look of disinterested contempt on his face.

"Do not worry, Mr. Bond," Ka attempted to reassure him. "Chow cannot understand any English beyond "Coca Cola." My Chinese hosts were very interested when I sent them your photograph for identification; it seems you caused them some pain a few years ago. I assured them we had encountered you while working the distribution end of our trade. It appeared to placate them."

"May I ask the obvious question?" Bond began.

"Such as, "Why is a Burmese overlord operating out of a phone booth club in mainland China?""

Bond nodded again.

"There is nothing to it that your government does not already know, Mr. Bond, so I have little reservation in telling you." The man reached for a cloudy drink that sat on the counting table and sipped.

"In China, Mr. Bond, the opiate of the people is opium, your Empire made damn sure of it long ago. They addicted tens of millions in China just so they could control Eastern trade. The great lady of China was no better than England's whore for generations, bearing her fruits all for the poppy flower."

Bond had to force himself from rolling his eyes. Ka may have been friendly, but his angst-ridden speech spoke of crimes that had been committed long before either of them were born.

"Your government looks upon me as a monstrous drug lord, whereas we look upon them as hypocrites, incapable of taking the very "medicine" which they doled out to us generations ago. But the Great Revolution put an end to the addiction."

"By murdering anyone who distributed or harvested the drug," Bond chirped in, but Ka continued unfettered.

"So now we see the rise of the Golden Triangle, and thanks to opportunists and businessmen such as me, the flow turns the other way. Mother China sees the irony in this, and they provide us with the capital, and the distribution lanes, for us to expand exponentially. Destabilizing the West sits quite well with them, addicting the addictors so to speak. As an added favour, we make sure our product does not find its way into The People's Republic, unless the powers that be want it to. They provide us with passports and shipping, they even made a gift to me of this club. You see Chow there? He hates me to his core, sees me as a fat Burmese pig that is not fit to wipe his arse, much less give him, a Chinaman, orders. He will never know the service I have done his people."

It took Bond's best effort not to laugh in the man's face. M's report had said this man before him had shipped 900 tonnes of heroin and opium to Western Europe and North America in the prior year, and would ship 1200 more by year's end. Ka's empire was worth more than a billion pounds, and was hardly an altruistic venture.

"So what is your business with me, Mr. Bond? What would Her Majesty ask of a simple man such as me?"

It was then Bond delivered the message M had sent him over 9000 kilometres to deliver.

"She wants you to stop."

Bond didn't really know what to expect from the man, laughter perhaps, a quick, forced exit for himself from the club with, or without, a sound beating as his payment for such insolent stupidity was also a distinct possibility.

What he received from Ka was a pause, a brief look of contemplation, and then another sip of his drink.

"This all has to do with the American, Corne, doesn't it?"

"That was the impetus, yes," Bond told him. "We know that you met with an American Green Beret named Luke Corne while he was working special ops in Burma. Our American cousins have been slow to share with us, but the gist of things seemed to be that you were video taped saying you would stop your shipments of opium to the West if you were simply asked."

Now, Ka laughed.

"Oh, but you are disregarding the best part, Beijing's true stroke of genius. We told the simple minded fool that his own government was our number one patron, that the CIA was responsible for the distribution of drugs to America's inner cities so they could suppress their rebelling minorities. So the fool goes back to the United States and begins to give speeches and interviews to anyone who will listen. You see, America becomes more destabilized, and we give the addicts someone to blame for their own weaknesses so they can more easily wallow in it. Brilliant."

"But was it all a lie?"

"You mean, would I stop if asked? I guess I have been half expecting such a thing for some time now. My field, my position, my allies, all of these are questionable things. I have sought an answer many times in my prayers as to how an old man could separate himself from what he's become and live out the rest of his days enjoying his accumulated wealth. Such thoughts are for sentimentalists, Mr. Bond, and my charity extends only as far as my wallet. Every man of business has his price, and if Her Majesty is willing to meet mine, then I would be willing to walk away, and provide you with the information you would need to dismantle the lines of supply."

So far the meeting could have not gone better. They had played out many scenarios of this exchange back at Regent's Park, and things were proceeding exactly to form.

"And your price?"

No pause, no hesitation, no dramatically timed drink, just an answer.

"Five billion pounds."

Bond was openly shocked.

"You must be joking," he sputtered.

But the smile disappeared from Shun Ka's face. As a player, Bond had always respected Asians as excellent gamblers, but there was no give to the face of the man from Burma.

"Measure the cost, Mr. Bond," he said. "Measure the cost of life, the cost of medical treatment, the cost of the money that is pumped into your own crime infested streets, and then ask the Americans how much they can shoulder. The answers may surprise you. I will be buying my own safety, for myself and my family."

"Safety?" Bond replied. "You could buy your own country."

Shun Ka stood.

"That is my concern. Yours is to be the errand boy. That is my price. Tomorrow you will leave China before you draw any more undue attention to yourself; we both now have interest in your safe passage. This interview is at an end."

**Hua** watched James leave, but this time there were no furtive glances or hidden messages. She sat within her cell, waiting for her next "patron," knowing that, as always, the wait would not be long. She had hoped the handsome, mysterious Westerner would stay to be with her awhile. It was refreshing to have someone with her who did not leer, who didn't flip bills into her tray to prompt the removal of her clothing, who did not ask her to do anything but talk.

But instead, he swept by without as much as a glance. Maybe his mind was preoccupied with whatever the foreign snake, Shun Ka, had discussed with him, or maybe this man had just used her as an excuse to keep watch on her employer and memorize the layout of the club. If that were the case he would be a worse than the animals that paid her for their amusement, for at least they were upfront with their desires and there was no denying what they wanted from her. As she watched his back make the turn at the end of the hall, she shook her head. No, she decided, there had been too much warmth in his voice, too much honesty in his pale eyes.

Chow still stood at the open door of the office directly next to her booth, and now, the Burmese man joined him.

"If he walks back through those doors anytime over the next few weeks, kill him," Ka said.

"Yes, sir," Chow replied, doing little to hide the contempt on his face, but Ka seemed to have not heard him, instead his eyes had wandered across Hua with a gaze that was all too familiar to her young, but experienced eyes. She tried her best to hide the shock of his command, but a thin smile worked across his wet lips.

"Is this the girl that the Englishman had been visiting?" Ka asked.

"Yes," Chow answered. "But he didn't seem to take much interest. Mostly talked and drank; he seemed to be waiting for you the whole time."

"That is his misfortune. She seems to be coming of age, this one, she should join Ch'ing's girls soon."

Chow nodded agreement, but Hua could tell he wanted to strangle the older man. Hua knew she was Chow's best earner, even if she wasn't as young anymore, she knew how to ply the customers well despite her "mental meanderings."

"Very good then," Ka concluded as he turned to go back into his den. "Tonight, at shift's end, bring her back to me in the office."

Chow's eyes turned to her, and their gazes made brief contact. She was far from innocent; there had been a few customers over the years that had paid the special ransom to share her time beyond the glass cage, knowing fully what their lust could cost them if they were caught violating the People's laws regarding prostitution. But the idea of the ancient, Burmese pig touching her made bile rise in her throat. She didn't see Chow as a bad man, his beatings were delivered with an emotionless hand and he had no love for the "General," but no matter how much her eyes pleaded with him, there was nothing he could do but turn and walk back to his station at the bar.

**As it often did** in this part of the world, the rain abated as if some heavenly being had randomly decided to turn off a faucet. Bond retrieved his light package in a pile of refuse down an alley about half a block away from Maan On where he had stashed it during the downpour on his way in.

The humidity of the evening was sauna-like, and Bond made his way to the theatre he'd reconnoitred on his first visit to Guan Dong's adult district four days earlier. Pornography in China naturally didn't formally exist according to the People's Daily; after all, an offence could result in two years of police surveillance. Bond smiled as he walked into the small lobby of the theatre, where the one sheets on the walls clearly displayed enough skin to adequately mark the theatre's fare. If the People's Armed Police had the owner under surveillance, they must have been doing it inside from the auditorium Bond sarcastically decided.

Adult movie houses, no matter the country, were a good place to lay low, and to bide time. There seemed to be an international rule that the proprietors and frequenters of such establishments avoided eye contact and had little desire to deal with local constabulary. As he purchased his admittance, the ticket seller's eyes never rose higher than Bond's _yuan_.

Bond settled into a seat at the rear, on the right side of the auditorium. Quickly he found a place away from the other dark profiles that were so poorly visible in the flickering light from the screen. Actually, he noted the "screen" appeared to be little more than a painted wall.

Ignoring the images and sounds of the film and his fellow patrons, Bond silently opened his package. With minimal head movement, he struggled into the matte black long sleeve turtleneck and trousers, while shoving the gloves and mask into the deep pockets of the slacks, along with a small plastic box, a steel rod, and his gunmetal cigarette case. His efforts easily went unnoticed amongst the commotions of his fellow movie goers. When done, he rolled his dark blue dinner jacket, slacks, and shirt into a ball and placed it on the seat beside him. For the next five hours, his only obstacle would be time. He crumpled down into the foul-smelling seat, lit a Morland, and closed his eyes. Customers would come and go, film reels would be changed, and James Bond would bide the slow iridescent hands of his Rolex.

At least the pretext was over. Ka was right, if he were dead, then another million men would be willing to crawl over each other to take his place. But as M had pointed out, "the lawn still needs to be tended to from time to time, or else the weeds take over."

By early morning, the air was a little cooler, although still sticky. Bond discarded his balled-up clothes in the same alley as earlier, and made his way back to the Maan On. Rather than risk the unknown, his assault would be through the front doors. From his prior visits, he knew the predawn hours would provide him with the least interference from patrons, and also a security staff that would be back on its heels.

As he walked up to the main doors, he donned the gloves, and then finally pulled the mask over his head. Pausing for a moment at the entrance, Bond removed the metal rod from his pocket and jerked his wrist, hearing the reassuring crack of the telescopic steel baton as it snapped into place. There was no need for the Benzedrine in his system now, adrenalin had taken over and he could feel his heart racing as he reached for the handle.

Only to find the foyer of the club empty. Bond was confused. On each of his prior visits, the Manchurian goons had been there to greet him. There was no time to question his dubious luck, there were security cameras all over the club, and his best chance of reaching his target, and perhaps even escaping, was to move quickly.

He walked briskly to the hallway he'd become well acquainted with over the last few days and pulled open the door. There, standing within the doorway was Chow.

He didn't seem overly surprised to see Bond, and as the spy glanced down, he could see that Chow had a nasty looking machete dangling from his right hand.

Bond was more than ready for a fight, and raised the baton to a defensive position, but Chow didn't move at all, the machete remaining lifeless at his side. He cocked his head a bit at the Chinaman, and for his confusion, received a wide smile.

Very slowly, in twisted English, Chow sputtered a belaboured, but clear, message.

"K…K…Kill the p…p…pig."

With this, the other man turned his back to Bond, and standing still, pointed to the base of his own skull.

Beneath his mask, Bond's cruel smile stretched even further. Chow had been the one to send the doormen away. Shun Ka in his own vanity and haughtiness had poisoned this man against him, and now Bond was going to reap the fruits of that hatred. All the Chinaman wanted was an excuse for his superiors, and Bond was more than happy to play along.

It was a true learned skill rendering a man unconscious. Unlike in the films, the human body was much more resilient than given credit for. With an untrained hand, a person could be nearly bludgeoned to death over a period of minutes before slipping away. But Bond's deft hand with the baton sent Chow away to blissful unconsciousness with one fell swing. As the figure crumpled to the ground, Bond was certain the wound would leave a large enough bruise to appease the powers that be.

Their brief exchange had happened at the mouth of the hall, and the bar had blocked the sightlines from the glass booths. Bond quickly closed the twenty metres between himself and the office, counting the well measured steps as he went, never pausing to look at the girls, or whatever clients might be roosting before them. There were no screams of warning, and that was more than Bond could have hoped for.

As he advanced, now unimpeded, he collapsed the baton and returned it to his left trouser pocket, while at the same time, removing the well-travelled plastic box. For any traveller to China, it was an easily recognizable and nearly indispensable thing; a Type G electric socket converter, but this one had come to him courtesy of Major Boothroyd. He pulled out the metal prongs of the plug extension and discarded them on the floor of the club. The three holes left by the missing pieces were like deep, hungry little mouths on the front side of the small box, and Bond held this end forward as he walked, clutching the box between his thumb and forefinger. The simple square gun was a muzzle loader which Bond had packed with steel bearings before leaving his hotel room. He would only have one shot, and it had to be taken from a close distance.

As he reached the end of the hall, James Bond looked down to see that "Juliet" had gone. His heart sank a bit. He liked the spark and playfulness he saw in the young girl and had hoped to catch a last glimpse of her, even if it was under such an awkward circumstance.

And then he was at the door. There was a chance that Ka would have seen him in the office's security monitor. If this were the case, then Bond would certainly be in for a nasty welcome. The PRC was rather stringent with its banning of private firearms, but Ka certainly had enough friends in the government that he could have a full arsenal stashed away in the room.

As he reached for the handle, Bond could suddenly make out some of the noises that awaited him on the inside.

Very familiar noises, indeed.

There was the distinct sound of wood creaking in a rhythmic wave, accompanied by a female voice squealing in passion, or at least, attempting to squeal in a rather unconvincing fashion. Bond turned back over his shoulder to look down at the empty booth with Hua's name etched on the plate above, and a dark look crossed his face beneath the black mask.

The door once again opened silently, and Bond found himself looking squarely at Shun Ka's back. The man's long, white, silk shirt hung loosely above his bare legs and rear as he rocked back and forth, oblivious to all around him in his ecstasy. Hua sat naked on the counting table in front of him, making the appropriate sounds for the act, but her face a sea of misery. As if sensing his presence, her eyes opened to see him over Ka's shoulder. He could see her eyes open wide in horror, and her mouth began opening to issue a warning.

Quickly, Bond used his free hand to reach up and slide the mask up and over his head. Upon seeing him, Hua caught her scream in her throat.

Having noticed that her chorus of fabricated fervour had ceased, Ka whispered to her between his thrusts.

"Is everything alright?" he asked in Cantonese.

She paused a moment and smiled as she saw Bond raise the box to the back of the overlord's head.

"Everything is fine, darling," she assured him.

Bond squeezed the sides of the box and the simple shotgun discharged its eight pellets into the back of Shun Ka's skull. The recoil of the blast tore into Bond's wrist and burned him through his glove. He shook the injured hand and thought of a few choice words for Boothroyd's field performance report if given the opportunity.

The sound of the blast had brought screams from the next room, and Bond knew he had little time left. Struggling with his injury, he managed to get the mask back over his head.

Hua was still sitting on the counter, looking down at the bloody, half-naked corpse on the floor before her in a dazed manner. Bond ripped a clipboard off the wall, and began to sort through the licenses until he came across Hua's photo. He tore off the sheet and stuffed it into the naked girl's hand.

"We must leave now!" he shouted at her, trying to break through her malaise. Seeing he was having little effect, he grabbed her free hand and pulled her forward off the counter. She nearly tripped over the body of her former employer, and for a moment, Bond thought he might lose her in a faint, but she quickly pulled around as he drug her from the office.

The girls were all screaming now, cowering against the back walls of their locked glass cells. The few patrons that had been there in these wee hours, had vanished with the gunshot. Apparently, the men had little desire to explain to their wives and bosses why they were at a crime scene at the Maan On Club.

Bond pulled Hua along until they reached the crumpled form of Chow on the floor. Here, she pulled against him, and brought their progress to a stop.

"Don't worry," he attempted to assure her in her own tongue. "He is only unconscious; he will be fine in the morning." Reluctantly, she finally stopped fighting him, and came along under her own will.

It was still pitch black outside, and once again the general lack of street lighting worked in his favour. From within the club, Bond could now hear the shouting of men's voices, and he knew he had little time before the arrival of the police.

They made their way to the alley, where Bond retrieved his clothing. Without a thought of modesty, he quickly stripped down in front of the young girl and began to pull on his dress slacks. As he tapped his pockets to assure himself that his wallet and passport with his Boldman ID were still accounted for, he felt the girl press up against him from behind, and put her arms around him.

He turned, still within her hold.

"Take me with you," she said to him, putting her head against his bare chest. Bond took a step back, and reached down to take her hands in his own.

"Hua, you are better than this," he told her. "You have that identification, and even if you can't read it, you can build a life with that." He quickly took out his wallet and removed all of his remaining PRC currency and shoved it into the pocket of his dinner jacket, he then draped the jacket over the naked girl's shoulders. By that evening, he would hopefully be back in his room in Hong Kong, and the money would be of little use to him by then. "That money will help you, but I can't afford to take you with me. There's a possibility I won't even make it out of Shenzhen alive, and I'll not take the chance that you might suffer the same."

Bond backed away further. The girl looked as if she was going to burst into tears at any moment, appearing to be even younger that she was, draped in the jacket that hung all the way to her knees.

"But…but," she muttered. The tears were starting to well, and in the distance somewhere, Bond could hear a siren starting to scream.

"Juliet, everyone doesn't have to die in the end this time," he told her as he pulled his dress shirt back on. "Take care."

With that he turned, and ran from the alley. He felt horrible leaving her there like that, but Lord knows he'd done worse things to women in his life. He had to get to the scooter he'd left locked up a few blocks away several days earlier. Soon the police would begin to close down the nearby roads. It wouldn't take them long to realize it was the _gwai__ lou _who'd been visiting the club that they were looking for.

By mid-morning he could be over the porous and poorly guarded southern border of Guan Dong and well on his way to finally washing off the oily stench of this city for good.

Hua leaned her back up against the wall of the alley, and slowly slid down its length until she lay curled up on the wet ground. For awhile, she let loose with huge, raking sobs that shook her whole body.

What kind of fantasy had she concocted for herself at the end, she thought? Did she really think the tall, handsome Western man would slay her dragon, and then sweep her away to some happily every after? He was a real man, not like the broken shells at the Maan On. He had no desires for little girls, and she had nothing else to offer.

She cried for what seemed an eternity. Slowly, the sun began to rise, and she realized she could not stay hidden for much longer. Hua thought of what James had said, and for a few moments she studied the strange piece of paper with its even stranger scribbled words, and the photo of herself. For four years, the only sunshine she'd known she'd seen from roof of the club, somehow it was more sinister and unpleasant out here on the street.

The tears had stopped, and were being replaced by real fear. Slowly an idea began to come to her, and she rose to her feet. He'd said that Chow was only unconscious. Perhaps, if she took the money back to the club and offered it to him, he would take her back without questions, without a beating.

Perhaps.

She began the short, barefooted walk back to the Maan On.


End file.
